Master of Dungeons
by Father Vengeance
Summary: When Castle ends up celebrating Father's Day unexpectedly alone, Beckett comes to the rescue bearing gifts. Note: bearing gifts, not baring gifts. Well, not fully anyway. Still, T for language and sexual references.


**A/N: So, there I was typing at my more serious effort of a story when this...event...attempted to insert itself. It failed, but it did so with such vigor that I felt it earned a home of its own. You may note that it's somewhat clipped in places; that's where the story in which it was housed has been cleared away. I smoothed over the cracks some, but didn't want to get too distracted. I've spared you the full account. The adventure they actually ended up playing is simply ridiculous. Amusing, at least for me, but truly ridiculous. Anyway, I hope you enjoy. Back to work...**

* * *

It was clear by the clamor in the background that Lanie was in the thick of things at her parent's house upstate. All three of the M.E.'s sisters could be heard talking animatedly, frequently simultaneously, yet somehow maintaining a cohesive flow. Indiscernible noises, a Father's Day meal in the process of being realized, were woven into the conversation as seamlessly as the percussion section of an orchestra.

By contrast, their eldest sibling's voice lowered conspiratorially when she exclaimed, "Oh! You know what would be a perfect gift for him?"

Katherine Beckett scrutinized a bag of seedless purple grapes carefully before adding them to her shopping cart. "Don't say me in something sexy," she grumbled into her cell, but also smirked, thinking: _'Cause_ _I already have that covered—so to speak_.

"No, girl, I wouldn't suggest anything so cliché as that."

A swift blink took Kate's eyes even as a lonely drop of dispiritedness plopped into her core. _Huh?_ She did her very best not to sound deflated. "I-I wouldn't call it cliché exactly. Something like that would probably be right up his alley." A tinge of uncertainty escaped into her voice. "Don't you think?"

"Honey, this is Richard Castle we're talking about." _Wait. Do I detect a note of teasing?_ "That man's standards of perversion are way too high for a demure little thang like you to overcome." _Yep. Ugh, Lanie!_

"Shut up," Beckett droned, sans malice, avec relief. "I'm perfectly capable of being, you know…"

"What?" her friend challenged. "Kinky? Playfully slutty? A potty-mouth in the sack?" A chorus of wolf whistles and cat calls arose from the trio of other women in the room, followed by gales of good-natured laughter and half-decipherable calls of encouragement. "You all need to focus on what _you're_ doing," Lanie assured them in the big-sister tone Kate was secretly amused to hear aimed at someone else. "Sissy, you especially, honey. You can't use just any old vegetable oil. Most companies produce that stuff on the same lines they use to make peanut oil. Daddy's mildly allergic to nuts, remember?"

"So am I," the accused could be heard to retort. "Take a long walk thatta way, Bossy, before you start givin' me hives."

"I'mma give you somethin' alright, baby girl. Wait'll Mom gets back from the store. She'll bring what you need to use. Just you listen. And you too, Kate Beckett. Don't think I can't hear you grinnin' over there."

"Okay, okay," Kate grumbled, but did not cease smiling. "Jeez, lady. You get so testy when you go home. Tell the furies I demand they stop having so much fun without me. As to my level of amusement in the sack; the fact that I knew how to be a professional at the precinct shouldn't be confused for an unwillingness to push the envelope. That man doesn't stand a chance." Her teeth clenched with resolve. "I'll put his jaw on the floor and send those pretty blue eyes rolling back into his goddamn brain."

Dr. Parrish gave a throaty purr of amusement. "If I could record those words and play them back to the woman I knew just one short month ago…"

"You know, I could've sworn I dialed my best friend. Is this the wrong number?"

"I'll stop teasing if you stop stalling and gimme details on whatever slinky bit of fabric you bought for your writer's viewing pleasure."

"No need to get excited," Beckett hedged bracingly as she rolled her cart towards the meat market. "It's just something…new." _True. Very true. A very true understatement._

"Something edible, perhaps?"

"Ugh. That's gross."

"Like I said," the other replied with satisfaction. "Demure." She paused briefly, as if expecting Beckett's answering snort of disagreement. "Seriously though, you know you'll knock his socks off whatever you wear, right? So just go with what's comfortable. Stick to your strengths."

Kate started to reply, but paused as one of the store attendants moved past the end of the aisle she was standing in. When the young man was out of ear-shot, she murmured, "What exactly are my strengths again?"

"Oh, you know," her friend said breezily. By the lack of noise it was clear she'd retreated to a more private area of her folk's place. "Play with your hair and give him bedroom eyes. You two have been humping one another with your gazes for years. Keep working that trick for all it's worth."

"I don't know what you mean," Kate replied airily, "but even if I did, we're skipping way ahead. I'm trying to figure out what comes before that, remember? It's Father's Day—his first one without Alexis here to celebrate it with him. I don't just wanna to make him feel better. I wanna to knock it out of the park."

"How about you let the poor man be on top for once?"

"Lanie…"

"What? You're trying to cheer him up, right? It won't kill you, girl. Plus, it sends a sweet message. It's like with kitties. They only offer their tummies to the ones they really trust, right? So when you let him take charge, he won't be able to help understanding how much it really means. It's instinct. It's foolproof!"

"Woof, woof," Beckett deadpanned in protest.

Lanie cawed approvingly, her laughter deep and rich with delight. At length she supplied, "Dogs have their own style. If that's more to your liking, by all means go for it."

_Hmm…_ A brief, intense flurry of images steeped in aggressive passion played out in her mind. _No, Katie, focus!_ "Wh-what were you really going to suggest I get him? You never did say."

"That's immaterial. I like this idea way better."

"Ah, shit. My battery is wailing. I'm gonna to lose you."

"Low, Kate Beckett, that is way low. Don't forget _you_ called _me_ looking for suggestions."

"And I'm grateful for your help. Seriously," she assured, smiling. "Give your Dad a smooch from me? Oh, and tell your Mom I made brownies for my dad using her recipe. He almost fainted after the first bite. I assume it was because the treats were just that good, not the shock of my having baked. We ate half the pan in one sitting."

"Mm," Lanie inserted hungrily.

"Very 'mmm'. Too 'mmm'. I've changed the title on the card to 'Satan's Black-Magic Bread'. Tell _Madre_ they're almost certain to become a permanent resident of my backside."

"Mmhmm," the other hummed. "Heaven forbid you put a little meat on those gluteal muscles."

"Are you kidding? I can feel my ass trying to pull an incredible hulk on my Billy Baja's as we speak."

Lanie laughed again, assured her, "You're mental. I bet that poor man of yours wonders sometimes whether bumping pelvises with you counts as getting lucky, or striving and failing to commit seppuku."

_Oh, you bitch. Good one!_ "You can tell Rick that when he starts complaining about me hogging up both sofa cushions. I'll be sending him your way at the first sign of disapproval."

"Rick? Ew. That sounds pornographic after years of 'Castle'."

Beckett gave a lilting laugh, but cringed slightly when the outburst elicited several stares from her fellow shoppers. She quivered with hushed amusement. "And you call me demure."

Lanie was silent, perhaps wracking her brain for a comeback. At length she confirmed the suspicion by muttering, "Is your cell dead yet or what?"

"Tell everyone I'm so there come the fourth of July. It's been way too long."

"Damn, girl—listen that decisiveness. I think that man-child is a good influence. Me likey lots. Everyone here said to tell you hello too. I'll send your love. Just make sure you do the same." The medical examiner evidently couldn't resist squeezing in one final admonishment. "But not from on top!"

"Bye," Beckett answered, drawing the word out pointedly.

"One more thing…"

"I'm all ass—I mean ears."

Her friend didn't laugh. The woman's tone was a smooth and serious flow. "He wants _you_, Kate. That's where I'd start with gift ideas." A glint of humor returned as she added unnecessarily, "And I mean that in the sickeningly drippy with sappy romance kind of way."

"What would I do without you?"

"You'll never know, honey. Love ya."

* * *

On the expansive screen of Richard's television the weatherman had reassumed his place before the map of the northern United States. Specifically, it was fixated upon the Great Lakes region, which was swallowed by unfurling spirals of pixels ranging from yellowish-orange to murderous shades of red. The volume was muted, but the man's gestures and the view behind him spoke volumes. The nearby states and Canadian provinces were getting pounded. Chicago specifically was inundated by dark tones of crimson.

"I'm watching it now," the novelist said into his cell. "It looks like a crime scene—a weather crime scene."

"I know," his daughter returned despondently. "I'm so sorry, Dad."

"I knew you were brilliant, but I wasn't aware you could control the weather. Here I was thinking you were a victim of circumstance." His daughter didn't laugh though. "Look, don't worry about it. There's nothing to be done. I'm just glad your flight landed at O'Hare before the storm got any worse."

"It's Father's Day," Alexis countered accusingly. "I never should have let Mom talk me into going to visit her in the first place. Not when it was so close to today. If I had given it more thought beforehand, I might have anticipated a complication like this coming up."

"Hush," he soothed with a quiet chuckle. "I'm glad you went. I miss you, but we'll celebrate when you get home."

"It's not the same."

"How is Mother doing?" he asked, a blatant, but necessary sidestep in the conversation. "Is she driving you crazy yet?" Martha had claimed that she couldn't pass up a free trip to the sunny west coast. Really though, the diva-turned-mentor knew Richard would feel better with someone else there to keep a wary eye on Meredith while Alexis was in her care. Peace of mind was his mother's gift for Father's Day, and he couldn't have suggested better.

Alexis hesitated, no doubt fighting the urge to expound upon her regrets for not being home. At length, however, she replied quietly, "A little bit actually, yeah. We're staying two blocks from the 'magnificent mile' and she can't get out to go shopping. The wind speed here is pushing sixty, so we're stuck in the hotel."

"There is a God," Castle breathed, "and He is kind and just."

His daughter expelled a brief laugh. Moments afterward she issued a wordless exclamation of dismay. "Oh no! Now the lights are flickering."

"I can't believe you've had power this long," Castle observed. "I'm going to let you go. I don't want lightning to track you down through the phone."

"Dad," his little girl groaned. "That's ridiculous."

"It happens!"

"But the odds of it—

"Aren't something I'm willing to gamble against," the novelist completed sternly. "Tell me you love me, and that I'm capable of being a good father on my better days. That's the only present I need."

Alexis sighed quietly, said, "I miss you. God, I'm so glad about Columbia. I could do a school farther away. I could make that work. But I'm so glad I don't have to."

Richard tried to keep his voice light, but an irrepressible gushing of sincerity splashed the words as they escaped. "Me too, pumpkin. I love you."

"Love you too. And…"

"Hrm?"

"Even on your worst day as a father, you'd still be the best in my book."

The writer's grip on his cell tightened, as though it could communicate the comfort of touch through the airways. He smiled even as his heart thumped heavily within him. The full, complex gamut of fatherly emotions surfaced; love, pride, fear, joy, and more. At length he managed, "I'm glad we agree."

She laughed easier that time—still quiet, soft, but free of melancholy. It was a woman's laugh; intelligent and understanding, indulgent and accepting. Perhaps an ache of wistfulness was to blame on his part, but she sounded…so grown-up.

"Talk to you soon."

"Bye, Dad."

* * *

The knock at the door made him jolt out of his chair with a yelp. The loft was dark except for the light of the television. He'd used the past two-and-a-half hours to begin catching up on episodes of The Walking Dead. A twinge of embarrassment escaped via a brief-lived chuckle. He shot the television a sheepish glance before hitting pause on the remote. "Don't think too poorly of me, Rick," he beseeched the lead character of the show, for the man's concerned visage was onscreen, frozen mid-sentence.

The knock arose again with more insistence as Richard approached, flipping lights on as he progressed. That's how he guessed who was waiting for him. The sounds could belong to any stranger really, but somehow he knew that it wouldn't be just anyone on the other side. Beckett was distinctive in so many ways. With a thrill of unexpected pleasure he opened the door, grinning widely. "I thought you were staying at your Dad's cabin for the weekend?"

Kate smirked back at him, but her eyebrows quirked in confusion. "Yeah, well, he kicked me out—something about mothering him to an obscene amount. There might've been accusations of eating the lion's share of his brownies too. I can't recall for sure." Her long hair fell in rebellious waves. Gold hoops glinted at her ears, a rare sight. A white chiffon blouse sheltered her upper body and khaki-hued hiking shorts encased the lower half. Long, toned legs urged him to distraction, rich with the acquisition of a golden tan. The former detective bore a paper grocery bag in her arms. A dark-green satchel hung at her right hip. The strap was nestled into the valley of her chest. "But he dug my card and the new watch. All in all, a grand success." With a snap of her fingers Kate brought his wanderlust-stricken gaze north of inappropriate. "How did you know? You answered the door as if you'd been expecting me."

"Oh? No, no. It's just, well, you knock twice with reasonable force the first time," Richard explained, gesturing for her to enter. She did so as he added, "But if you have to do it again you tend to pound, and escalate to four knocks."

"There's no way that's accurate," she grumbled, "not every time."

"It's curious," the host agreed, still grinning as he leaned in to take the bag for her.

Beckett refused to relinquish the burden, but took advantage of their proximity by gracing his mouth with a fleeting press of her lips. "The idea that you've filed away that level of detail about me…" She shook her head while leading the way to the kitchen. "I don't know whether to be flattered or creeped out."

"Be fair. I can't help what my brain latches onto."

"Nor your hands it seems," the woman commented wryly, expertly twisting her hips out of his needful grasp. "Let me set this down." Once relieved of the bag she turned her back to the counter and made room for his encroachment within the corral of her arms. The flats she was wearing presented Richard with the unfamiliar vantage point of looking farther down than usual. A change in altitude did not make her seem any less imposing.

"Hi," he grinned, leaning in close to brush his nose lightly against hers.

Beckett pulled her lower lip between her teeth briefly, smiled beautifully. "Surprise."

"The best one all day," he assured. Even after five weeks together, merging his mouth to hers elicited a sense of wonder that remained almost as fresh as the first time. Delicious tension wound its way into his chest; pervaded and sought other parts of him to likewise enthrall. There was no such thing as simple contact. Any and every merging of their bodies made him yearn for more.

The tip of her tongue stroked just beneath his lower lip, slid up and over the curves of his mouth before she leaned back enough to match gazes. "Happy Father's Day."

Richard hummed wordlessly, blinked twice lazily, and hoped it would suffice as an expression of gratitude.

"I heard a rumor that you were celebrating solo tonight. That just won't do."

"Alexis called you?"

"Her," Kate confirmed, "along with Lanie, whom she also called. Lanie told Esposito, who told me as well as Ryan, who in turn told Jenny, who also told me."

"Hmph. All that friendly concern, but did anyone bother calling _me_?"

"They went straight for the cure," his lover observed, and bestowed another, briefer kiss before wiggling free of the embrace. "I made that grape salad you liked," she revealed while beginning to unload the paper bag. "I also fired-up a couple porterhouses on the grill. Oh, and homemade fries. It needs to be warmed up."

"You cooked everything before you came over? What's wrong with my kitchen?"

"Nothing," Kate answered, turning slightly to view him askance, "other than the fact we sometimes have trouble making it to the eating part of the cooking process." Her lips curved suggestively.

"And that's why," he noted tightly, pointing at her with one of the hands clutching the counter he was leaning against.

"Better grab some silverware quick then. I'm starving."

He did, and assisted as Beckett unloaded each of the aforementioned items from the paper bag. They were housed in their own respective Tupperware containers. _The queen of take-out owns Tupperware? Fascinating._ Also within, wedge into the bottom of the bag, was a rectangular present swathed in wrapping paper colored to look like outer space. The repeating pattern upon it featured a very determined looking monkey wearing a space-suit and riding a rocket-ship with a cone of flame shooting out of the rear engine. The content of the package was easily discernable by its heft and texture: a hardcover book, oddly large and thick.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," he complained, "what's this? Don't tell me you brought another writer into this house on my sacred day of celebration. No, hold on," he added, considering the item with a pensive frown. "It's not burning my hands to hold it. This isn't one of Patterson's."

"Food now, presents later," Kate admonished, but her expression was lit by excitement and what he could only interpret as a flicker of hopeful anticipation. It was like glimpsing the girl hidden within her—a rare treat indeed.

* * *

They ate on the terrace. Night had come as close as possible in swallowing the city. It was proliferate with artificial lights, like a meal the darkness was too full to finish. Elevated levels of heat and humidity coaxed a lather of condensation from their matching glasses of sweet tea. The ice settled and resettled with intermittent tinkling as it melted. A pair of small dishes bore the dancing flames of two short, stubby red candles.

Castle had spent so much of their time together seeing Beckett remain cool under varying degrees of pressure. The warmth suited her just as well—more so for being something enticingly unfamiliar.

Shifting light painted brunette waves with a honeyed glow. They framed elegant features gleaming with a thin layer of sweat. Without the benefit of make-up, Richard could discern the subtle imperfections she deemed necessary to mask. Fine lines were apparent at the corners of her eyes. A similar story of time was told in the laugh lines bordering her mouth. She was glorious—a gleaming refutation to the misconception that youthful appearances were the be-all-end-all of attractiveness. Her legs were raised into the empty third chair at the small, round table they occupied. At ease, eyes half-closed as they watched the city in companionable silence, she was utterly entrancing.

Staring did not go unnoticed; green eyes slid smoothly to him after a time. They lingered. Kate's expression didn't change much during the transition. It was as though she were as intrigued by the view of him as that of the cityscape.

"You look hot."

"Thanks."

Castle pursed his lips as they curved in appreciation for the misconstruing of his meaning. "Let's go inside where it's cooler."

"Can't wait any longer for your present?"

The novelist leaned back in his seat, rubbing lightly at his jaw as he posed, "You have to admit it's an intriguing mystery."

"It's no big deal—just a little something."

"Perhaps, but I'm still curious. What gift would Katherine Beckett choose for a man who now possesses everything necessary to be happy?" The woman's attention fled from his, fleetingly chased away by the affectionate admission. It returned only a moment later though, refusing to be driven to shyness for long.

A slim, elegant eyebrow arched challengingly. "Any theories?"

"Hrm. Oh, I know. You decided to replace my copy of The Hitman's Handbook."

"I'm glad I forgot it on the subway, accidental though it was," she stipulated, and slapped lightly at his knee when he gave a doubtful grunt. "Confess; you only bought that book in the first place because it's banned. Tell me you actually read even one chapter and I'll find a new copy for you."

Richard stroked his chin and shifted gears; because of course he hadn't read it. Who would subject themselves to such a thing? "Let's see… You bought me a coffee table book that extols Vincent van Gogh's contributions to the Post-impressionist community."

"How can you not appreciate his work?" she blurted, eyes opening fully. Her disbelief sounded as fresh as it had the moment he'd let his disapproving opinion of the artist slip. "In retrospect, I don't know why I made you dinner. What good is that kind of effort for a man with no taste?"

"Oh, I have it: you got me a self-help book about how to live with an intellectual bully." Kate snorted lightly and hid a shameless grin behind one curled fist. Her eyes shone with the laughter that otherwise remained bottled up inside. "Alright, I honestly have no idea. Can I get a hint?"

"I'll consider your request." The former detective rose slowly to her feet, stretching languidly. She issued a quiet murmur of welcome when he proved unable to resist the expanse of flesh between the waist of her shorts and the hem of her top. Her fingers combed lightly into his hair and she expelled a stealthy sigh of pleasure as he turned to nuzzle against her. Rick pushed his nose into the waist of her shorts and breathed the scent of her in deeply.

"A better kind of nosy," his fairer-half observed on a murmured exhale.

"Smells like…Mm, happiness."

Beckett laughed without sound, quivering against him.

When he retreated a bit in order to lazily trace around her belly-button with his tongue, she accused, "Obviously you don't want your gift that much. I suppose I'll keep it for myself." A subtle tremor betrayed her steamy receptiveness.

"Dessert," he explained.

"Forget the hint. I want you to open it. If only so I can stop guessing whether it was a good choice or not. But I need to freshen up."

Reluctantly, he stood as well. "Would you like a change of clothes?"

"I brought some with me."

"Okay. I'm going to get cleaned up too then. You can have the hot water," he added with a slight narrowing of his gaze. "I rather think a cold shower would suit me better."

Beckett's grin merged humor with something downright predatory. "You can open your gift after you're done. No need to wait for me for that part."

"Are you sure? Oh," he hummed with realization. "You're giving me a head-start in case I'm not impressed, aren't you? I'll have you know that I'm excellent at pretending to like shoddy gifts."

"Hush, male. I don't think you'll have to pretend. It's a matter of timing, that's all."

The arched eyebrow expressing his confusion was met with his lover making a shooing gesture. She herded him back into the loft and they parted ways at the stairs—Kate pausing to grab the satchel she'd arrived with first.

* * *

Richard emerged from the upstairs bathroom ten minutes later and headed down to his bedroom. The master bath was venting wisps of steam from under the door. By the sound of the interrupted spray he knew she was still in there. _Lathered and wet, letting her muscles liquefy under the dual assault of blessed heat and a massage therapy showerhead_. It took heroic resolve to follow the instructions she'd given him. Recollection of her excitement and nervousness proved helpful to his restraint. It prodded his curiosity mercilessly.

The author chose a well-worn pair of jeans and a navy tank-top. With the AC running he didn't need more or less. Comfortable, he retreated into the living room with his space-explorer-monkey-wrapped package. It never stood a chance. Castle tore into it like a starving animal with a fresh kill.

Three hardcover books were contained within. Richard chuckled aloud, dumbfounded and thrilled. They were the core components of the Advanced Dungeons & Dragons role-playing game: _Monster Manual_, _Player's Handbook_, and _Dungeon Master's Guide_. All three of the volumes were first editions. Their age was obvious despite being well-cared for. He wondered how she'd managed to find such dated copies.

The novelist stopped guessing when he opened the cover of _Player's Handbook_ and found her name on the title page, scrawled with youthful vigor between swaths of text: Katie Beckett. She'd doodled what looked like a dragon's tail onto the straight lower leg of the 'K'.

_Too adorable_.

A quiet battle was waged between amusement and a hard thrumming of deep affection. Neither side won. The stalemate was expressed tangibly in a drawn-out sigh. _That woman is a consistent mystery_. Since the night they'd come together, Beckett had opened up with him in ways he'd never anticipated. Who could have known how much she'd been holding back all that time? She certainly had been. His partner proved it every day by revealing surprising instances of affection, pure rambunctiousness, and just…a fun-loving, _life-loving_ side that had been carefully contained behind the badge. She was wise to have hidden it so well. If he'd even suspected the truth, waiting would have been next to impossible.

He didn't notice when the shower stopped, nor register the howling of her blow-dryer. When Beckett's voice finally came to him the host was thoroughly absorbed in _Monster Manual_, mentally comparing the creatures to their mythological inspirations. "Are you ready to be tested, Adventurer?"

Richard looked up. His jaw decided…not to accompany.

Her eyes _burned_ green, enlivened to an almost unsettling degree by expertly applied kohl. The black leather overbust corset she wore was strapless. From out that deep darkness even recently tanned flesh shone apple-blossom fair. Neither large nor small, her breasts were an exquisite medium, pressed into wholly distracting pertness. Her hair was drawn back in tight confinement to present an unobstructed view. With her head turned slightly to one side he could discern a twisted bun. The dress gracing her long-stemmed lower half was a flirtatious facsimile of a renaissance piece; matching velvety blackness, floor-length, but with a devastating slit up the entire left side. It lay against her hips with the ease of cotton, hemmed with gleaming threads of sea green.

"Jesus," he blurted.

"No, it's just me." His partner didn't smile as she approached into the living room, choosing to convey a serious mien, but the author could discern the desire to do in her eyes and the corners of her mouth. She eased down into the nearest armchair and he watched, rapt, as the dress parted narrowly along its slit. One slender hand slowly extended into the space dividing them. She grabbed the _Dungeon Master's Guide_ and _Monster Manual_. "I'll need these for a while longer."

"S-sure," he agreed haltingly. Anything she wanted. Everything. Humor staged an attempted coup upon her stern countenance as he floundered mindlessly. Oh well. If the prize was seeing her in such unlikely attire, pride and coherency could take a flying leap.

"Have you ever played before?"

_Hrm_. Intelligible words—bane of his existence. Richard worked his jaw mutely, heard himself grunt, and then sigh noisily. _Nope. Too soon. _He settled for a slow, foolish grin.

Beckett's eyes swam with it, narrowed perceptibly in unvoiced laughter. "I'll take that as a no."

He nodded stiffly. _Hey, progress_.

"Me either," she murmured, looking down at the books fondly, but a little wistfully too. "My parent's building had a distinct lack of other little girls. Plenty of boys though. We played together a lot, but when they decided to sit down for a game of D&D…" A note of recalled indignity crept into her voice. "…it was boys only."

Richard's gaze shifted firmly to hers. Those little gems of personal history were uncommon. Given the previous demands of her work, and the author being a family man, neither of them had much time to idly revisit the past. Even if that weren't the case, they were both firmly present-focused individuals. Glimpses of the person she used to be were like the sun peeking out from a stormy sky—always welcome for coming so seldom.

"If they were here now they'd be kicking themselves senseless." A wry smile curved her lips. "Me too though," he revealed. "I had the books once, but there were rarely any opportunities…" He smiled slightly and shrugged, because while it had hurt at the time, he certainly wasn't unhappy with how it had all worked out.

"I suspected as much. We're both long overdue."

"You mean we're actually going to play?"

"Of course," she huffed. "I didn't get dressed up like this to take you out for a movie."

"Mm," he answered at first, unable and unwilling to help but explore the entirety of her. "And I'm certainly not complaining about not having to share this vision with the outside world." Kate leaned back a bit, sitting upright warily as though concerned he might jump her right then and there. _Or maybe gaining distance to prevent herself from doing the same to me?_ It was a happy flight of imagination. "I'm a bit fuzzy on the rules," Rick cautioned.

"Shocking, because you and rules usually mesh so swimmingly."

"Out of simple ignorance this time," he clarified in defense.

Kate's amusement lessened somewhat and she cleared her throat. "Right. Well, I can fill you in on some of them as we go. For now, we just need to make you a character."

"Oh, right! This was always my favorite part: building the alter ego and creating the back story."

"Not so fast," she admonished calmly. "I already have a story for us to play. But it's tailored to certain character types. You need to be a fighter, cleric, or paladin if it's going to make any sense."

"How about a rogue?" he asked as if he hadn't heard the stipulations. Brimming enthusiasm spilled into the words, "Ooh, or a wizard. No! Both—I'm going to dual-class."

"Castle…"

"That way after I sneak off with the king's treasure I can magic up a storm of fireballs to distract the guards from chasing me." His chest swelled with anticipation. "I will be a cold and cunning figure, leaving impoverished monarchs in my wake. I'm not a good guy in this story you see."

"Gee, I hope you're comfortable playing something so different from reality."

"Hrm," he mused aloud, refusing to smile. "You'll be playing—what? An elf I suppose. They frequently harbor a marked disdain for human passion and ingenuity."

"I'm the Dungeon Master. My characters are many."

Rick snorted lightly. "Okay, Legion. If it _must _be one of those three, I'll make a fighter."

"The only option lacking faith. Very well, a godless heathen it is."

"No. My character simply doesn't act on behalf a single concept of divinity. He's agnostic."

"Like me."

"Are you?" he asked, arching an eyebrow slightly.

"You didn't know?"

"It's never come up. I guess I thought, given the work you did, maybe you would be understandably jaded on the idea of God or an afterlife."

"Your character," she reminded him, shifting in her seat with a hint of discomfiture.

_Interesting_. As much as the woman was opening up to him, there were clearly some doors that remained locked. Time, he imagined, would likely prove to be the only key for some of them.

Beckett stared back at him, expressionless, but not in a cruel manner. She perched an elbow on one knee and rested her chin in the palm of her right hand. "What?"

"Nothing," he replied, smiling again. "I just know how smart you are. It makes me wonder sometimes whether you're poking and prodding me like an inquisitive scientist, strategically presenting situations that bring new details of one another to light."

"_I_ just wanna play some D&D."

Rick chuckled, coaxed by her expression which looked too guileless to be real, but probably was. "Let's move right past how unfathomable it feels to hear those words come out of such a gorgeous woman's lips. I need dice so I can roll my attribute scores. I don't suppose you brought…"

Kate wordlessly reached into the valley of her breasts with two fingertips of her left hand and withdrew a small black velvet bag. When she dropped it unceremoniously on the coffee table it was clear by the sound that a number of dice were contained within.

The novelist moistened his lips and clutched the velvet bag in a tight fist. "I need to savor these moments. The sexiest evening of my life must not be rushed." Beckett slowly unveiled the full row of her pearly whites. "The only way this could get better is if I was playing Halo at the same time. Oh! All of that, yeah, but throw in the cherry on top: you giving me a blow-job throughout."

His crudeness did not dissuade her smile. Indeed, it only served to narrow her scintillating stare with something deeper seated than humor. "Hmm. I thought you said you didn't want another one? Those are the words I recall."

"I wonder why," he returned with light sarcasm. "Oh, yes," his eyebrows rose with feigned realization, "I seem to recall you chasing me around the loft with my, uh, _stuff_ in your mouth." He feigned gagging and shuddered, flapped his hands in abject disgust.

"Because you wouldn't kiss me!" she accused, folding her arms crossly and sitting upright again. "Who the hell taught you the etiquette of oral anyway? No—don't answer that. It's obvious: no one did. And you hadn't finished before I tried to kiss you. There was no good reason to refuse."

"Fine," he shot back. "Next time I head south of your border I'm coming back to polish your tonsils."

"So? I taste good."

Richard stared blankly at her for a brief span and then scowled, because damn it, there wasn't much refuting that. He nodded grudgingly.

"Good. Now roll your stats."

The command prompted just that, and when the series of rolls were at length complete he leaned back in his chair to look them over. "Strength," he began listing, "is fifteen."

"I thought you rolled a seventeen on one of those volleys?"

"I did. That's for his charisma score."

"Castle, you're making a fighter." Her tone was instructive rather than critical. "They don't need high charisma."

"This character does. He's a charming, and devastatingly handsome fighter."

Beckett squinted, flicked her eyebrows in dismissal, and marked the score down in her own legal pad. "Good. It'll keep the story short and to the point if your character dies fast."

"Intelligence," Richard continued with pointed volume. "I gave him a fourteen."

"That's not a requisite either. Are you being contrary just to annoy me? I mean, what about his constitution? That's what determines bonus hit-points, you know. You're making the weakest fighter ever."

"Says you."

"Says me, yes, the Dungeon Master. I wrote the story. I know what you'll need in order to survive."

"All I need is my cunning." He grinned as she resolutely did not smile at him. "Dexterity score is ten."

"Not so limber. But for a fighter that's actually not so unusual."

"Are you going to critique every score I give you?"

Kate arched her eyebrows, smirked at last, and rolled her wrist in silent invitation for him to proceed.

"Constitution is thirteen. You have the intelligence already, and charisma, which leaves wisdom—I gave him an eight on that. Unlike me, he's slow to learn from previous mistakes. Sadly, it's a constant source of trouble in his life." The former detective quivered silently in her chair with the fingertips of her free hand pressed lightly over trembling lips as she jotted down the numbers. "His name is…Grimoore."

"As in the French word for a spellbook?"

"No." He spelled it aloud for her.

"What's his surname?"

"There is no family name. He's an orphan—a battered and cold byproduct of the war-torn realm from which he hails."

Kate met his gaze; hers narrowed slightly as if suspecting a punch-line.

"He lives by the sword," the author continued solemnly, "a drifter and opportunist who has largely discarded his humanity in favor of embracing the awful purity of a survivor."

"What's his sexual orientation?"

"Huh?"

She looked up from the legal pad and stared at him.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"I have preset characters that will be interacting with your fighter. Their behavior towards him will vary depending on his personal morality, sexuality, and the choices he makes as we go."

"That sounds ominous. Uh, anyway, he's straight."

"Aw," Beckett teased lightly. "Not even in fiction, huh? Are ya chicken?"

"What can I say? I'm the polar opposite of even the vaguest curiosity about being gay. Not that I disapprove—I don't feel one way or another about it to be honest. It's such an alien concept. I can't even fathom it, let alone play the role convincingly."

The truth of the words must have shown as much in his expression, because Beckett gave a soft note of amusement. "Alright, stud."

"Hold on. Does this mean we're going to be playing out a sex scene?"

"I don't know," she answered, punctuating each word in an attempt to convey the absurdity of the question. "You're the one exploring the story. I'm just filling in the scenery as we go."

"Maybe I should make his constitution score higher after all, just in case. I want him to be a beast in bed."

"Castle…"

"Why do you have a sex scene in a story you wrote when you were a girl? That's rather disturbing."

"There is no sex scene," Beckett expounded more forcefully, but also blushing faintly. "I'm just trying to be prepared for whatever eventuality we might run into."

"You say the other kids didn't want to play this with you, huh?"

"Aw jeez," Beckett said, frowning vaguely and bringing a hand up to her chest. "That's harsh. If I seem overly controlling it's only because I want to tell you a good story."

"Oh, damn you for eliciting sympathy. Fine, I take it back."

"Better," she stated with approval, all too abruptly dispelling any semblance of hurt. "Now, you have a certain amount of gold to buy your starting armor, weapons, and adventuring equipment." The woman refused to acknowledge his outraged expression. "As it happens, however, this story begins with your character already being given the first two. That leaves you with thirty gold for purchasing additional gear—or you can save the money in case you need it later. So, what do you want him to have?"

"This," Rick answered, tapping at the _Player's Handbook_ where it lay open across his lap.

Kate leaned in, frowning. "What is it?"

"Uh…"

She looked up at him, and then followed the line of his stare down to her chest. Smooth and sultry, she observed, "Grimoore is already strange enough for a fighter with those stats. Giving him a set of these might tip the scales on freakishness…"

"Oh, uh," Richard blinked, chuckled ruefully and nodded. "Yes, good point."

"You've already seen everything under there."

"Yeah," he agreed, grinning widely.

"Ugh. God, you're hopeless."

"An enchanted ring," he replied, poking at the page of the book again. "I have enough to buy a brass ring enchanted with a minor cantrip. I want it to create a wind effect."

Beckett's expression conveyed mildly irritated bemusement.

"When he rubs the ring a mysterious breeze arises, buffeting his hair and cloak. You see, my fighter also has a minor flair for the dramatic. He was a bodyguard once for a traveling pair of bards."

The writer couldn't recall having seen someone more determined not to laugh. "Huh."

"This says it costs twenty-five gold pieces. So…"

"It's your money. Waste it as you choose."

"Nice!"

"Okay," Kate said as he scribbled down the item on his makeshift character sheet. "Give me a brief character description and flesh out his personal history a little more. Try and pick four or five specific events in his past that served as the most decisive influence on making him who he is. I, meanwhile, will grab snacks and drinks."

"The Dungeon Master is most kind."

"We'll see…"


End file.
